


Turn to Dust or to Gold

by silentsnowdrop



Series: Demonstuck [62]
Category: Homestuck
Genre: Gen, Please Do Not Anger The Fae, Really Don't Do it, TW: Aftermath of Torture, TW: Flashbacks, TW: Minor Self Injury
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-12
Updated: 2020-02-12
Packaged: 2021-02-19 05:33:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 8
Words: 10,226
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22672663
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/silentsnowdrop/pseuds/silentsnowdrop
Summary: A halfblooded Fae escapes the grasp of some unsavory hunters into a supposedly-haunted IHOP.Of course this is going to draw in the Striders at some point.
Relationships: Dave Strider/Karkat Vantas, Jake English/Dirk Strider/John Egbert
Series: Demonstuck [62]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1003470
Comments: 8
Kudos: 71
Collections: Fanfiction For All Fics





	1. Chapter 1

It’s several hours before you’re finally left alone.

You’re not really surprised it took them that long— you did kill at least three of their compatriots (and the fourth will never walk again if she does survive) before they took you down with a bullet in your leg and clapped iron manacles on your wrists. You fought them as long as you could, but the pain left you dizzy and off-balance and the iron made you fight not to vomit. You aren’t sure exactly what they did to it, but you can feel it even now, crawling down your spine and trapping your magic in a stomach-twisting web. The water pouring over your shoulders doesn’t help, and neither does the broken ribs that are definitely jabbing you in the lungs.

But you’re alone now. And the manacles are iron, but they’re still just manacles, on wrists that work like any other flesh-and-blood joint.

You can get them off—it' s just a question of how much you’re willing to go through to do it.

You rotate your wrists experimentally in the manacles. There’s room, but not much— the edges brush your thumbs as you move. Still, there’s enough for what you need, and when you reach over, you can just barely grab your thumb and hold it to your palm, as tightly as possible. You take a deep breath, then slowly begin to pull your wrist out of the iron circle.

It’s not easy. It _hurts,_ with every tug digging the edge deeper into your skin. Eventually, it breaks the surface, and you have to bite your tongue to muffle the instinctive scream at the burn. You’re so focused on not making a sound, you don’t realize that you’ve gotten your hand free until you lurch forward, blood spattering the ground as you rip off a strip of skin.

But your hand is free. Your hand is _free._

You can do this.

You repeat the process with your other hand, and it’s just as painful. But the cuff comes off, and you don’t regret the blood you’ve spilled as you lever yourself to your feet and take a look around.

They dumped you in a modified basement, it looks like. The water that was soaking you comes from a spigot, and drains into a hole in the concrete below the bare wood stairs. The rest of the room is bare except for a table made out of what you hope is aluminum, polished to a mirror sheen.

You can still feel the death worked into every cranny and crack of the room.

You need to get out of here.

You limp your way to the table, and put a hesitant hand on the top. It’s smooth and cool and doesn’t make you recoil in pain, so you put your other hand on it and look down. Your pale, badly bruised face looks back at you, one dark green eye swollen shut and flaxen hair falling out of its braid. The ceiling of the basement is just as clear as your face, and you try not to look too closely at the load-bearing hooks on the beams as you work up the energy to lever yourself up onto the table.

The door at the top of the stairs opens, and a voice shouts something about you escaping.

You do not have the time to lever yourself up onto the table.

You throw out what magic you have into the mirrored surface, and tip yourself forward into the reflection.

* * *

The thing about mirror travel is that it is disorienting. Even on a planned trip under calm circumstances, you stagger and have to spend a moment reorienting yourself. This trip is neither of those things, so you can forgive yourself as you flop over a counter and onto the ground, dry-heaving all the way. The pain as you hit the tiled floor makes you choke, and you spend the next minute fighting to breathe.

Eventually, you manage to regain your breath, and lay there, wheezing slightly. Part of your mind registers that no-one has come to find out what the horrible noise was, and after a moment, that part gets big enough to make you open your eyes and find out why.

You discover that the store bathroom you are in is almost pitch-black. The only light comes from a nightlight that someone has thoughtfully plugged into an outlet, and as you crane your head back, you can see no more than the shadowy outlines of bathroom stalls and sinks. You let your head sink back down for a moment, and you take a moment to try to plan.

It doesn’t take long for you to decide that you don’t have a better plan than ‘get out of here and hope you don’t die before you find the nearest copse of trees.’ Your entire body throbs with pain now, concentrated in your iron-burnt wrists and your still-bleeding leg, and you can feel your grasp on consciousness becoming more tenuous with each passing second. If you don’t leave right now, you are going to die here.

It still takes you a few seconds to climb to your feet, and you have to hold onto the counter to keep your balance. Your breathing and heartbeat obscure your hearing for a moment, and once they ease down into something resembling normal, you hear voices outside of the bathroom.

“Ow, fuck— ”

“You okay, Dirk?”

“Ran into a table. I’m fine. Go check the bathrooms?”

Panic seizes you, and you stumble into a stall, tucking yourself into the corner and tugging your hood over your head to hide your ears. You have no idea what they’re here for, but you are not interested in getting captured again.


	2. Chapter 2

You are decently sure this IHOP isn’t haunted. There’s nothing to suggest that it would be in the first place, no historical murders or old houses or even an old graveyard in the area. Furthermore, when you glanced in the kitchen, you saw plates stacked haphazardly that vibrated with the heavy semis that drove by. You’re pretty sure that the so-called haunting is actually just someone not wanting to get blamed for not putting things away correctly, but hey. It’s an easy job, and you _are_ getting paid for it.

You take a moment to pat Dirk on his shoulder as he rubs his hip, then make your way to the bathrooms.The doors are right next to each other, and you push the men’s door open and look inside. It looks perfectly normal, so you close it and look into the women’s.

The yellow light of your flashlight reveals blood smears on the floor, and you freeze.

The blood is fresh — still liquid enough to shine in the light — and the same crimson that flows through your veins. This only reassures you a little, and you ease your taser out of its holster as you call, “Dirk? We might have a problem.”

There’s a moment of quiet. Then Dirk appears at your shoulder, hand tight on his sword hilt. “...Let me go first.”

You are perfectly okay with letting him go first. He doesn’t draw his sword, but he is obviously ready to at the first sign of trouble as he steps through the doorway and flicks on the light. With the extra light, you can see the blood is smeared on the counter as well, and makes a trail of droplets into one of the stalls.

You can also see water droplets, which strikes you as odd. Before you can figure out why, Dirk slides toward the stall the blood leads to and carefully pushes the door open.

You can’t help a startled gasp at the sight of someone wedged in between the wall and the toilet. Their head snaps up as you do, and you realize three things in that moment.

First, they’re definitely not pure human. Pure humans don’t have that sort of androgynous, almost offputting beauty, like real-life CGI.

Second, they’ve been punched in the face recently enough that the bruising is still developing.

And third and most important, they’re about to launch themselves at Dirk.

You yelp the beginnings of a warning, but Dirk is already twisting out of the way as the person launches themselves up from their crouch (and you’re definitely sticking with ‘they’ unless told otherwise, because their clothes give you no clue as to their gender either). Dirk shoves them past himself as they fail to compensate, and you catch them around the waist before they can get very far. Your arms squish into their sodden clothes as you say, “Hey, hold on—“

You see stars as they slam the back of their head into your nose, and something crunches. Your grip loosens, and they tear themselves free.

When you blink your vision clear (well, except for your cracked lenses, and damn it, you _liked_ these glasses) you find Dirk has the person in a chokehold. They’re maybe an inch or so taller than him, so he has to lean back slightly to keep them from regaining their footing. They’re clawing at his arm, and you can see the edges of raw wounds on their wrists, like chemical burns.

Something clicks in your head at that, the last piece of a horrible puzzle slotting into place, and you yell, “Dirk, stop!”

“John, what—“

“They’re not trying to kill us!” You meet the Fae’s eyes and try to project all the honesty and earnestness you can. “Put them down, and let’s try to talk.”

Dirk looks extremely dubious, but he trusts you. A moment later, he sets the Fae down, and they immediately scramble away, falling to their knees and gulping in deep, painful sounding breaths. You crouch, keeping your hands away from your weapons, and say, “Sorry about that.”

The Fae’s eyes narrow, and they spit at your feet. “Just get it over with,” they snarl with a thick Irish accent. “I have no illusions about my chances of survival with _that_ one around.”

They jerk their head toward Dirk, and you glance at him too, nonplussed. 

Dirk just winces. “I’m not...the guy you’re thinking of. Derrick Strider’s been dead for years.”

You wince too as realization hits. “Oh. Yeah, he’s—we’re—not associated with him. And he’s super dead.”

“The only reason I admit to being related to him is because I literally can’t deny it.” As the Fae keeps glaring at him, Dirk shakes his head and climbs to his feet. “I’m going to go text Dave. John, I’ll let you handle this.”

You both watch Dirk walk out. Then you glance at the Fae. “So, uh, sorry about that.”

“...For now, I will have to trust that you’re not lying.” The Fae gives you a rueful smile, not precisely relaxed but suddenly less hostile. “I do not have much choice, anyway—I won’t get far on this leg.”

You glance down and see that under their left leg are more smears of blood, and a hole has been torn in their black jeans. You blink, then stand up and start grabbing paper towels from the dispenser. “What happened?”

“...I was attacked by hunters.” You wince again—that really doesn’t help your case here—then start folding the towels as they continue, “I do not know what they wanted from me, but I presume it involved either dissecting or vivisecting me.”

“Is that why your wrists are all fucked up?” You turn back, towels folded into a thick pad, and crouch as they sit properly on the tile. “And sorry, but this is going to hurt.”

They hiss in a sharp breath as you start applying pressure, but they don’t try to fight you. Instead, they cross their arms, hiding their hands from view. “Are you familiar with how iron affects those with Fae blood?”

“Enough to know that it can really fuck you up.” You’ve helped break up enough small-time HDB hideouts to know what iron burns look like. At least this Fae only has them on their wrists.

At least _they’ll_ probably survive.

You shake off that morbid thought and look up to find the Fae looking pensive. “...yes, it was iron. They thought that enchanted manacles and running water would be enough to contain a half-Fae. They were wrong.”

You tilt your head curiously. “How’d you get out?”

They shrug. “The manacles were big enough for me to slip out of if I didn’t mind losing some skin, and after that it was just a matter of using the ‘mirror’ they so thoughtfully left me to step out.”

“You walked through a mirror?”

The Fae—half-Fae, you suppose—laughs softly. “You don’t have much experience with Fae, do you?”

“Not really. Mostly demons and cryptids and a haunted Roomba.” When they stare at you, you shrug. “We’ve got a weird house.”

“...so you’re not hunters.”

You snort. “We’re hunters, but we’re not bigoted against non-humans. Or part-non-humans. Or humans-with-weird-abilities. We’re just trying to keep everyone safe, and it sucks that most of the time that involves killing someone who isn’t human.”

“And your hunting partner...Dirk?” You freeze for a moment, and they laugh for a moment before pressing a hand to their side with a pained hiss. “...I do not intend to use your names against you. Besides, you never _gave_ me your names. They are yours to keep.” When you let out a breath of relief, they continue, “Dirk is not like the hunter I was warned of save for his appearance.”

“God, no.” You move your hands to check the towels for a moment, then continue, “Dirk would have killed Derrick if he could have. And he’s trying to help fix the shit Derrick broke. He’s a good person.”

The half-Fae stares at you for long enough to get uncomfortable. Before you can try to crack a joke to break the tension, they sigh, then fall back onto the tile. “...you may call me Tempest.”

“Uh…”

They look at you with amusement glinting in their unbruised eye. “I’m making the decision to trust you for the foreseeable future. Please don’t make me regret it.”

“Oh.” You blink, feeling a bit stupid. “Does that extend to letting us take you to the safehouse?”

Tempest sighs and closes their eyes. “If I wake tomorrow morning, I will owe you and yours a life-debt.”

“Wh—no, dude, you don’t—“

“They’re Fae, John.” You look up to see Dirk with the first aid kit from the car. “They can’t not owe us.”

“Oh. Sorry.”

Tempest waves a hand at you. “No harm done.” They watch Dirk warily as he comes over and crouches, and only relax a bit when he pulls out a roll of gauze. “Do Americans hold to sacred hospitality?”

“Most of us? Not really. But while you’re under our roof, you will be safe, fed, and clothed.” Dirk starts wrapping the gauze around their leg, and you get your hands out of the way. “And you’re welcome to stay for as long as you need to.”

“We kinda...adopt people.” You shrug. “You don’t have to be adopted, but you’re welcome to be if you want to be.”

There’s a long moment of silence as Tempest stares at you. Then they close their eyes again. “I have a family. But...we shall see...”

Their voice trails off, and after a moment, their head falls to one side as they lose their grip on consciousness. You immediately check to make sure they’re still breathing, then look at Dirk. “Is Karkat at the safehouse?”

“Yep.” Dirk ties off the gauze, then picks Tempest up. “Dibs on not explaining this to D.”

“Oh, fuck you.” He laughs at you, and you stalk out to the car.

You end up explaining to D anyway.


	3. Chapter 3

You wake up because there’s light on your face, warm and welcoming. Your eyes flick open, and you find yourself staring out a window over a suburban backyard with early morning sunlight spilling over it.

You don’t realize that moving should hurt until you’ve thrown up the window and yanked the screen aside so you can stick your head out. The sun warms your skin, and your magic curls out to meet it like a new leaf.

As the last residual aches from sleeping in a strange place melt away, you have to swallow away sudden tears before they choke you. You’re alive. It doesn’t matter that you could have died last night or are indebted to strange hunters in the future. Right now, you are _alive_ and able to greet the sun.

So that is exactly what you do. You stand there and greet the sun, and if a couple of tears manage to work their way loose, you don’t mind. You’re alive to shed them.

Once your shoulders start to ache from holding yourself up, you reluctantly retreat back inside and put the screen back in place. You leave the window open, though—even with the unpleasant bite of pollution, the air is still fresher outside than in, and it’s not at an angle that anyone could look in easily.

That done, you take a glance around the room. Two doors, one open and leading to a small bathroom, one closed leading to what you hope is a hallway. A bed big enough for one, a nightstand, and a small closet.

Not much, in other words, but it’s warm and dry, and as you glance at yourself, you find that your hosts have given you clean clothes (that are a little too short in the ankle and wrist, but you can live with that.) Satisfied, you step into the bathroom to wash yourself.

Your hosts were kind enough to cleanse your body of most of the dirt and blood you had acquired in your struggles, but your hair is now a tangled mess. The shower is perfectly functional, however, and it’s with no small relief that you step under the warm spray five minutes later.

_Water pouring over your head and manacles around your wrists and the burn of iron intended to bind and harm and the sharp mocking laughter as you cringe away from the boots at your hip before they slam into your ribs and the breath stealing snap of pain as one of your ribs breaks—_

Your head hits the side of the shower stall as you jerk back from the spray, and you fumble to turn it off. As the shower goes silent, your own panting breaths echo off the tiled walls until you cover your mouth in a bid to calm yourself.

It doesn’t exactly work, but you can stumble out of the shower and sit on the bathmat without hurting yourself further. You trace the new scars around your wrists like a rosary, reminding yourself that you are _free_ and _alive_ and will _never_ have to return to that basement.

Eventually, your breathing eases into something resembling normality, and your hands fall still. You glance back at the shower, then shudder and shake your head. No, you don’t think it’s wise to attempt that again right now.

That still leaves the question of how you’re going to wash your hair.

After a moment of looking, your gaze falls on the sink, and the empty cup sitting beside it.

You frown, then sigh, then slowly stand. Beggars can’t be choosers, after all.

* * *

You step out of the bathroom with you and it mostly dry to a bright mid morning sun. You head over and reluctantly close the window, then slip out of the door, finding that it opens to a fairly nondescript hallway. For a moment, you wonder which way to go; then the smell of cooking food and laughing voices makes you turn to the left and walk.

The hallway deposits you in a kitchen, and you have to jump to one side to avoid taking what looks like a plate of sausages to the face. Said sausages are being carried by John, who is holding them above a laughing young man with pale hair and scarlet eyes. “John, damn it, give me that!”

“Nope, nuh-uh, we have a guest! They’re going to go hungry because _you_ ate all the sausages — ”

“I think our guest is right behind you,” a young man sitting at the kitchen table says in an accent you want to qualify as both English and Australian (and end up qualifying as simply absurd.) He gives you a grin that is wholly without guile, and you smile back as you step around a stammering John and sit down as well.

“It’s all right. Thank you for the thoughtfulness, though.”

“It’s no problem.” The young man sets aside the pendulum he was holding, then holds out a hand. “My name — ”  
“ _Don’t.”_ You might have cut him off a little too harshly, judging by the way he recoils, but you don’t want his name, not when your trust has been so well repaid. You take a deep breath, then deliberately say, “You may call me Tempest.”

“Oh. _Oh,_ yes, of course, my apologies.” He blushes, and holds out his hand again. “You may call me Jake.”

You shake his hand, then glance at the pale-haired boy. He blinks, then says, “Oh. Uh. You may call me Dave?”

“And you may call _me_ Hal.” A voice from the other doorway makes you look up to see Dirk and someone who you at first glance think is his twin standing there. A second, more studying look tells you that Dirk’s grinning doppelganger is definitely not entirely human — magic curls around him in ways that it would never touch a full human. 

You stare long enough for that grin to become a smirk, and Hal says, “Like what you see?”

You blush, and your ears flatten against your still-damp hair as you look down. “I — sorry.”

A hand touches your shoulder, and you glance up to find John grinning at you as he sets a plate of eggs and sausages in front of you. “Don’t worry about it too much. We can handle a few questions.”

“For once, I’ll let Egbert be right on this.” Hal pulls himself up onto the refrigerator, then opens the laptop he was carrying under his arm. “You had definitely one of the most polite reactions I’ve had so far to my absurd yet awesome existence, so you are absolutely allowed to ask questions.”

You blink at him, then take a slow bite of eggs, thinking. “...A question for a question, perhaps? I ask of you and you ask of me.”

“Sure, why not.” John smiles and sits on a stool. “What do you want to know?”

You don’t want to ask what Hal is. That still seems rude after the staring. So instead, you ask a question that you think is safer.

“Are you and Jake brothers?”


	4. Chapter 4

Several things happen at once when Tempest asks their question.

Jake’s eyes bug as he stares in horror at John.

John falls off of his stool with a surprised yelp.

Dirk sprays orange soda from his nose and starts hacking painfully.

And you have to hold onto the counter, you’re laughing so hard.

Fortunately, Hal still seems functional, even if he’s laughing too. “I believe the answer they would like to give is ‘no.’ Also, Tempest now holds the record for fastest verbal incapacitance of the most members of this household at once. Congratulations.”

You wheeze, then go over to help John up. “Oh my god, your _faces._ Hal, please tell me there’s video.”

“Actually, yes.”

“Delete that,” Dirk snarls. Then he sneezes and holds his forehead. “ _Ow._ ”

“No can do, brother mine.” Hal’s grin is the very definition of shit-eating. “This needs to be recorded for posterity.”

You get John upright, and he rubs the side of his head before looking at Tempest. “To answer your question better, we’re like fifth or sixth cousins, and being brothers would be fucking _weird_ because we’re both dating Dirk.”

“But not each other.” Jake gets up and hands Dirk a handkerchief to wipe his face (and the fact that he actually has one sends you into another fit of giggles.)

Tempest blinks at you all. “...I take it you don’t get asked that a lot.”

“...not really?” John gives Tempest a sheepish grin, and you shrug.

“We don’t get out much, and most of the hunters we talk to already know they’re just similar looking.” You grin. “Maybe we _should_ get out more, though.”

“Christ, no.”

“Christ, no what?” a cranky voice demands from behind you. “And why does it smell like orange soda?”

You feel your grin get bigger in the moment before you turn and plant a kiss on Karkat’s cheek. “Morning babe. And it smells like orange soda because Tempest asked if John and Jake were brothers and made Dirk spray orange soda out of his nose.”

Karkat blinks, then looks at Tempest. “I’m surprised you’re up. You were in rough shape last night.”

You remember, and immediately wish you hadn’t. You’ve seen even more bound Fae than the others thanks to Bro, and the unexpected sight of their burnt wrists had been enough to tip you into a panic attack. This time, at least, you can’t do more than catch your breath before Karkat winds his mind gently around yours, easing the edge of the memory and letting you breathe out slowly. _Thanks, Kar._

_Anytime._

Tempest doesn’t seem to notice your momentary lapse as they study Karkat quietly. “I take it you are the one who healed me?” When Karkat nods, they give a short bow over their food. “Thank you. My life-debt extends to you as well.”

Karkat nods, and you clear your throat. “So, uh, it’s our turn to ask questions, right? Because I really want to know how you ended up in that bathroom.”

“If I were more Fae than I am, I would not answer the question you want answered.” Their smile is gently amused, and they wave the hand not currently occupied with spearing more eggs. “I won’t play that game with you, though.”

They sigh. “The short answer I have already given John. The long...may not be any more helpful. ...I am here visiting family, on my human side. Yesterday was my last day seeing them; perhaps the ones who captured me knew that. Even if they did not, they still ambushed me as I was searching for a good place to use to step through the world.”

There’s a pause, and you have to grab for Karkat’s hand at the sudden flash of _fear-anger-shame_ that Tempest sends out. “They overpowered me, and bound me in that _hateful_ iron, and if I hadn’t gotten free—“

Their terror overwhelms you for a moment, and you dig your nails into your palm until the pain breaks the emotion’s hold. Then you step forward, dragging Karkat with you, and set a hand on Tempest’s shoulder. “Hey. You’re safe here, okay? You aren’t going to go back there while you’re under our roof.”

They stare at you, green eyes too big for their face. Then they take a deep, shuddering breath, and the terror melts away like spring dew. “...right. Thank you.”

“No problem.” You lean back, frowning a bit. “Do you remember anything that could identify them?”

Tempest makes a face. “A question for a question, if you remember. It was my turn.” They look down at their half-eaten breakfast, then say quietly, “...if we find them, will you stop me from exacting justice?”

“Hell, we’ll join in.” Their head snaps up, and you shrug. “I don’t want to kill people, but...man, full disclosure, I was raised by an asshole who liked doing the kind of shit they did to you, and worse. And if people like us don’t stop them, no-one’s going to.”

You seem to be very good at getting Tempest to stare. Their eyes search your face for long enough that your skin starts to crawl.

Then they smile, and you let out a breath you didn’t realize you were holding as they look over at Dirk. “I sorely misjudged you if you count one such as him as your kin. I am sorry.”

Dirk shrugs, but there’s a bit of a smile around his lips. “It’s more him counting me than the other way around, but thanks.”

Something warms your chest at that, and you have to look away before it starts to choke your voice. “You’re pretty great too, you know. Don’t...don’t sell yourself short.”

“How about you both accept you’re great and don’t get into a stupid argument over who’s the better family member?” Karkat growls playfully. Dirk rolls his eyes, but doesn’t argue further, and you lean against Karkat.

“Fiiiine. Karkat wins, all currently living Striders are great.” That makes Dirk outright laugh, and you grin before looking at Tempest. “So. Got anything?”

“...allow me to finish my breakfast,” they say as they take another bite of eggs. “Then we shall see if I can remember enough to exact justice.”


	5. Chapter 5

It’s several days before anything happens. Your hosts decide to wait until the rest of their number return from their various jobs, which doesn’t take more than a day, but their debate of how to handle this takes up more time than you think it should.

Then again, you would very much like to simply go and kill all of the people who hurt you, so perhaps you’re not a good judge of what is and is not appropriate right now.

You keep yourself out of the discussions for the most part; you’re not against negotiating when you’re not directly thinking about what happened, and you’re well aware a less violent approach is, if nothing else, more legal.

So you’re somewhat surprised when D Strider sits beside you and asks, “What exactly qualifies as justice for you?”

You stare at him, startled into stillness for a minute. Then you shake your head and turn back forward, thinking. “...I want to say nothing but their deaths. What they did, and what they likely would have done…” You trail off, unable to put your horror into words, then shake your head. “But I understand that simply killing them would...complicate things.”

“I mean, we can get rid of the bodies if it comes to that, but…” D scrubs a hand through his hair. “I’ve hunted with at least some of them. Their leader’s new, but most of them have been around here for at least a few years, and they’ve never pulled anything like this before as far as I know.”

“They have hurt people before, D.” You shudder. “It was ground into the floor and walls. Perhaps not all of them were involved directly, but they knew, if nothing else.”

D winces. “...yeah, you’re...you’re right.”

You shake your head. “Don’t castigate yourself for not wanting to believe the worst of people.” You stay quiet for a moment, thinking as rationally as you can.

When you do speak, it’s slowly. “...first, I want everything they stole from me returned. If they sold it, they must reclaim it; it was not theirs to sell or give away.”

“Second, I demand _éraic._ ” When D gives you a confused look, you grimace. “I don’t know the word you would use for it. It’s payment for injury or death; I’ll accept actual money.”

“Damages is the word you want.” D frowns. “I don’t know how we’re going to ask for that without a Balancekeeper—“

“That’s fine, because my third demand was that the leader be judged by a Balancekeeper.” You look down at your hands. “He was the one who led my capture. And if he had been dispassionate about it, if it had just been a job, perhaps I would not be so disturbed, but...”

_The man yanks your head back by your hair. “You made a big fuckin’ mistake, killing my people.” Fear curdles in your gut as you stare back at him._

_He’s not angry. If he were angry, you would be less afraid._

_No. If anything, he is_ excited.

You shake your head to dispel the memories. “Perhaps his followers still have honor. But their leader is not to be trusted, D. I don’t know what exactly he planned for me, but he wanted me to hurt. So he must submit himself to a Balancekeeper, or we must be ready to kill him.”

“...all right.” D puts a hand on your shoulder, and you look over into a face that you know is unusually solemn. “I think that’s fair enough. I’m going to send them your terms; we’re going to try to meet them tonight.”

“I am coming with you.” You raise your chin. “And I am not going unarmed.”

That makes D laugh. “That we can help with. Come on, let me show you the armory.”

* * *

Several hours later, you are in an empty warehouse with those D decided to bring with him to meet the other hunters. Hal and Davesprite are outside running surveillance, but in addition to the rest of the adult Striders, you have Jake, John, Karkat, and Roxy with you. Eight people should be plenty.

You still grip your quarterstaff tighter as the other hunters come in. There are eight to your eight, but most of them are older than any of you except maybe D. Most of them are watching you with various levels of hostility, as well — the only two who aren’t are the leader, who is staring at D with a blank expression, and a younger woman that you don’t recognize, who is paying no-one any attention as she examines your surroundings.

Something about her—maybe her complete refusal to look at anyone, maybe her calculating expression, or maybe her quick, almost birdlike motions—makes the hair on the back of your neck stand up. You catch Karkat’s eye, but he only has time to nod slightly before D speaks.

“Bradley Jackson, right?”

The leader—Bradley—gives a derisive snort. “And you’re the famous D Strider. I’d say I’m honored, but I’m really not.” His eyes meet yours, and you can see a familiar excitement rise in them. “Not while you have _that_ with you.”

“They are a person—“

“That thing killed my little brother!” One of the older hunters snarls, taking a step forward. “We had to hack him out of the tree he was stuck in, and there was barely enough left to recognize him!”

Before he can continue his tirade, you step forward and slam your borrowed staff against the ground. The resounding crack effectively silences him, and you wait for its echoes to die before you speak. “Your brother and your fellow hunters jumped me while I was trying to get home. I tried to talk to them. I tried to convince them to leave me be. I tried to run. I only fought when I had no other choice, and I only _killed_ because my other choice was to allow myself to be _taken_! And when I lost, and was dragged to that basement in those accused chains, you _stood by_ and allowed them to torture me!” You reel in your fury with difficulty, clenching your hands until your knuckles stand out white in a bid for calm. “And I am not the first being who was dragged into that accursed room. I could feel it, as clearly as I could feel the iron you left to burn into my skin. You and your fellow _hunters_ intended me to die down there in agony. Why should I feel remorse for trying to defend myself against _that?_ ”

There’s silence for a moment as you stare down the now bone-white hunter. You can feel yourself trembling, teeth bared and ears flat against your skull as you subsume the urge to attack him. Around you, your allies are giving you nervous looks, but you can’t respond as you watch the hunter.

Then Bradley laughs, and your head snaps around to look at him. “All right, all right. You’re not exactly wrong—we did beat you up and lock you in a basement. But you’re not here for revenge, right? You’re here for your shit back.”

You blink at him, then shake yourself, trying to refocus. “I—yes. In part. I presume you have it?”

“Well, we have a bit of it.” He reaches over his shoulder into his rucksack. “It got a bit...beat up, though. Sorry.”

He tosses something at your feet, and you take an instinctive step back. Then you realize what it is as it clatters to a stop, and your heart clenches painfully.

It’s your shillelagh. More specifically, it’s the two halves of your shillelagh, hacked apart with what you guess was a particularly dull axe to judge by the splinters. You kneel and run your fingers over the splintered blackthorn, sending out a whisper of magic, and let out a shuddering breath as the memories of light and growth inside respond.

“Shit, dude, I’m sorry.” A hand lands on your shoulder, and you look up to see Dave watching you with sympathy written in every shift of his body. “Is there any way to fix it?”

“I can.” You swallow, then hold out your quarterstaff. “Can you hold this?”

He takes it with a minimum of confusion, and you reach into the pouch of seeds Roxy got you at your request. Slipping an ivy seed between the halves and holding it there without dropping anything is tricky, but once you have it, it’s the work of a moment to breathe the seed into life and direct it to mend the shillelagh.

It takes time to mend something as stubborn as blackthorn. So you’re still on your knees, holding it together, when Bradley says, “Tracy, kill the lights.”

“ _Finally._ ” You look up in time to see the unconcerned woman grin and hold up her arm.

You’re pretty sure you should be worried about the way all of the light in the room is being sucked into her skin.

You are far more concerned with the lasso made of iron cord dropping over your head.


	6. Chapter 6

The lasso drops over your shoulders and cinches tight around your chest as the lights go out. Unable to compensate, you’re yanked forward, sending your shillelagh clattering to the floor as you’re dragged across the concrete.

Two gunshots ring out almost simultaneously. There’s a sharp grunt of pain, the lasso goes slack, and a hand comes down on the back of your hoodie and yanks you back.

“ _Fuck—_ Roxy, we need light—“

“That’s going to make us a target—“

You’re deposited on the ground by what you realize is D’s hand, and you yank an arm free of the lasso and stick it in your pouch of seeds. “I can make cover.”

Above and behind you, Roxy sighs through her teeth. “Fine. On three?”

“On three. One, two—“

As she says, “Three!” light flares around you. You fling your handful of seeds out, and as they impact the ground, they spring into furious growth.

Your vision greys out for a moment from the energy it takes to fuel the seeds. When it comes back, you’re staring up at the Striders, all three of whom are bent over you. “You okay?”

You squint, then sit up with a wince. “That’s harder to do without earth and sun.” But it was effective; a thick stand of maples and ivy screens you from view, and when a few gunshots ring out, the bullets impact the trunks but don’t pass through.

D looks around, then nods. “All right. What’s the plan?”

“I was assuming ‘beat these fuckers up and leave,’ but if you’ve got a better idea, I’m all ears,” Karkat growls as Dave hauls you to your feet and hands you the quarterstaff.

“That’s about the size of it, but—“

The earpieces that you’re all wearing choose that moment to burst to life. “D, we’ve got a problem! Looks like Bradley brought extra friends—he and five or six others are surrounding the van, and I don’t think we can take them all, not with their damn nightvision setups blocking Davesprite—“

You key your mike as you peer around the trees. “Hal, are you and Davesprite safe for the moment?”

“For now, yeah, but they’re cracking Rose’s wards fast!”

“Hold out as long as you can. I’m on my way with—“ you glance at your allies, and Dirk, Jake, and John all nod. “Dirk, Jake, and John.”

“Gotcha. _Hurry.”_

You take a moment to gauge the distance between you and the door, then glance at Karkat. “Can you make a distraction for us?”

“Yeah,” he rumbles, and his appearance begins to become more inhuman. “Ready?”

“Go,” Dirk snaps, and you all move.

Karkat vaults your screen of trees with a roar. There’s panicked shouting and the sound of gunfire, followed by a scream, and the rest of you bolt out behind him.

There’s an immediate clash of swords as Dave and D leap into the fray, followed by the crack of a firing rifle. You only pause to snatch up your still-mending shillelagh and sling it over your back; the vines that are sprouting from the middle wrap around your chest, holding it secure as you sprint for the door.

You reach the door. Then you yelp as you go to pull the chain off, only for it to burn your fingers as blue runes flare to life under your fingers. “Ow — fuck, they’ve cursed this — ”

“Let me see.” John touches it, and you’re a little gratified to see it flare against his touch as well. He yanks his hand back, then hesitantly reaches for the padlock keeping the chain in place. When it doesn’t flare, he sighs. “...All right, well, there’s a start.” He digs a leather case out of his pocket and crouches. “Give me a minute.”

“I could just shoot it — ”

“And kill us all with ricochets.” John gives Jake an amused look, already selecting the picks he needs. “Watch the hall, would you?”

Jake grumbles, then turns, pulling a flashlight from his belt and flicking it on. The beam extends down the hall, and for the first time, you realize that you can only barely hear the sounds of fighting from the main part of the warehouse. You’re not far enough away for them to be so quiet, and you find yourself wondering if whatever that woman did affected sound too.

You find your answer when a side door slams open, the echoes dying before they can really exist, and two hunters skid out. One is the man whose brother you killed, and you carefully raise your quarterstaff. “Look, we—“

“Shut it.” He draws his sword, then launches himself at you. “I’m going to fucking _kill_ you, and that’s all that matters right now!”

You block the sword, gritting out a curse as the vibrations threaten to numb your hands. Beside you, Dirk grunts as he locks blades with the other hunter. “The hell?”

“Unlike _you_ hypocrites, _we_ make use of _everything_ we kill.” Dirk’s opponent shoves him back as your opponent starts trying to hack through your quarterstaff. “Bradley’s got us on the _good_ stuff — shows, huh?”

You growl. “ _Murderers_ , all for a little power.”

“Eh, it’s a matter of perspective.” The other hunter grins. “I say whoever comes out alive is the right one, yeah?”

Your eyes narrow. Your staff snaps out as your opponent draws back for another strike, shattering his nose and sending him stumbling back. In the narrow hallway, it’s the work of a moment to spin it and catch Dirk’s opponent in the stomach and knock her back too.

You stick your hand in your seed pouch, filter out several ivy seeds, and fling them at the hunters feet.

Your vision greys out again, and your knees fold. Strong hands keep you from hitting the ground, and when your vision comes back, you find yourself staring awkwardly up at Jake. He glares at you, then carefully pushes you upright, somehow managing to not crack your head against his chin in the process. “Jesus, Mary, and _Joseph,_ Tempest, if you’re going to be a fool at least _warn_ someone!”

You blink, clearing your vision, then shrug slightly. “It worked, didn’t it?”

The two hunters are dangling from the vines you grew, mostly unharmed. The one whose brother you killed looks terrified as you take a slow step forward, but all you do is check to make sure he can breathe and then shake your head. “I don’t actually want to kill you. If you had left me alone, or if you had agreed to my demands, then I would leave you alone. And so long as you don’t come after me again, I will leave you alone after this.” You pause, then add, “I am sorry I killed your brother. He...cornered me, and I had no other option.”

_Your leg is sheer agony, and the man standing above you is sneering down at you. “I heard fae were pretty, but_ damn. _I almost feel bad about what we have to do to you_ _—_ _maybe I can convince the boss to find another_ _—_ _”_

_He doesn’t get to finish his sentence as branches wrap around his chest and yank him into the air. You leave him screaming as you limp away_ _—_ _in pain or in terror, you don’t know and don’t much care._

_He deserves it._

His brother isn’t sneering at you. He’s staring with wide, startled eyes, until he snorts and winces. “...whatever.”

Behind you, you hear a click, and the chain on the door rattles. “Ow — shit, that burns — okay, we’re good to go.” You glance over your shoulder to see John edging open the door and squinting outside. “I don’t see anyone, but the van’s on the other side of the building.”

“Then let’s go,” Dirk says, and slips past.

You follow him without another word.


	7. Chapter 7

It’s dark outside. The sun had been up when you’d entered, but the waiting and fighting had apparently eaten up both sunset and dusk, and now only a half moon is providing light for you as you creep around the warehouse to the side parking lot. Tempest leads the way, and you, Jake, and Dirk follow far enough behind that hopefully their silent footsteps aren’t compromised by the soft crunch of gravel under your feet.

They reach the corner of the building, and you stop moving until they motion you closer. As you join them, you can hear an argument going on.

“Damn it, Tracy—“

“Swearing at me ain’t gonna make this go faster.” You peer around the corner of the building to see a knot of seven people standing near the van. One of them is crouching and scribbling something on the ground with what you guess is chalk, but you can only identify her by her voice with all of the legs in the way. “Whatever they’ve done to the van is pretty sophisticated, and it’s not coming down without something sophisticated right back.”

“Fine, but hurry. I’m not an idiot; they’re going to be out here any moment now.”

You look at Tempest, then at Dirk as the conversation becomes muttering. “We need to interrupt them, now.”

“As soon as you and Jake start shooting, they’re going to scatter.” Dirk grimaces. “How many do you think you can hit before they move?”

“Three or four, with both of us.” Jake takes a look, then shakes his head. “After that, it’ll be too dark for us to risk shooting.”

You hand Jake your stungun, and grin when he gives you a weird look. “I’ll think of something, don’t worry.”

Jake rolls his eyes, but takes the stungun and carefully slips it into his pocket. “All right. Ready?”

You both draw your pistols and take careful aim. You aim low, at their legs--they might have Kevlar on, and they’re bunched together enough that you should be able to hit them easily even off of center mass.

You fire.

Jake aimed center mass. At least two of them were not wearing Kevlar.

The sight of two humans dropping like stones because of your cousin, necessary or not, is going to haunt your dreams. Unfortunately, you do not have the time to process the sight, because the rest of the hunters are scattering as Bradley barks orders. One of them is going for his own gun, and you holster your pistol and rush him.

You manage to take him to the ground, and his gun goes spinning off under the van. Then he bucks you off, and you get slammed into the bumper as he springs his way to his feet.

You hiss as your shoulder pulses with pain. Nothing’s broken, you don’t think, but that’s definitely going to bruise tomorrow. You also don’t have time to consider that, because you are currently unarmed, and he is drawing some sort of nasty looking baton.

You lurch to your feet, looking around wildly, then pause when you spot a sledgehammer on the ground. They were probably using it to break into the van, but you can think of a much better use for it as you snatch it up and block the baton.

It’s not the best weapon--the head makes the whole thing unbalanced, and it’s a little too short for you, actually. But it’s better than nothing, and as you take a retaliatory swing, the other hunter seems startled. You grin. “Put that down and I won’t have to hurt you.”

The hunter just grimaces and rushes you again. You shrug internally and block his next attack. _Sucks to be you, then._

The next thirty seconds or so are a blur of attack and attempted counterattack. He doesn’t manage to do more than graze you with the baton, but in return, you only barely touch him with the hammer. It’s just too heavy to do anything proactive with if you also want to defend yourself.

You find yourself regretting giving Jake your stungun. You could really use it right now.

There’s a choked cry of pain behind you from Jake, followed by the thud of a body hitting the ground. You spin, grip loosening on the hammer, and nearly drop the thing on your foot when you see Jake on the ground convulsing. Bradley is standing over him with your stun gun, and you snarl and rush him. “Get away — ahrk — !”

The guy you were fighting gets his baton around your throat and yanks you back. You grab the baton before it crushes your windpipe, stumbling back as you’re forced farther away from your cousin. On the other side of Jake, Dirk tries to break free of his fight with Tracy. She just laughs and forces him into a deadlock of blades, making his feet skid slightly as she presses him back.

You can hear Tempest still fighting. You don’t dare look over to see what’s happening as Bradley drops to one knee over your cousin and pulls out a syringe. “Well, well, didn’t see this coming, did you? Too bad for you; I’ve always wanted myself a pet seer—“

There’s a thud to your left. A blur of movement passes in front of you, and Bradley cuts himself off with a scream of pain as the blur swings something at his hand, crushing it and the syringe.

The blur resolves itself into Tempest. They’re holding their shillelagh, and as you watch, the vines still growing from its center wrap around their forearm and settle. From your angle, you can’t see their face, but their voice burns with fury as they snarl, “On your feet, black-hearted churl. Let’s see you fight someone on even ground for once.”

You have a moment to wonder who the hell calls people _black-hearted churls_ anymore. Then Bradley laughs, and every hair on your body stands up in protest of the sound of ice grating against ice. “Kid, I’ve never fought fair in my life. But sure, I’ll play with you.” He stands up, and his hands morph into something that looks more like bear paws. “Don’t blame me if it doesn’t work out for you.”

He swipes at Tempest, driving them back. As they leave your line of sight, you swear under your breath, then slam your head back into the nose of the guy holding you. You get an instant headache, but there’s a satisfying crunch and the baton is suddenly under your control as the guy lets go to clutch his face. You turn, already swinging it, and the man crumples.

You really don’t care if he’s concussed or not. You just slip the baton in your belt and help Jake sit up so he can breathe. A moment later, Dirk joins you, hands slightly bloody, and you glance up to see what’s left of Tracy on the ground.

Good riddance.

Jake’s hands spasm as he clings to Dirk, and you rub his back as he coughs. “ _Christ,_ that thing hurts.” His voice is shaking, and Dirk makes a little worried noise and holds him closer, ignoring the blood he’s smearing everywhere.

You keep rubbing his back. “You going to be all right?”

“Think so.” He coughs again. “Provided no-one else shocks me in the next ten — ” He raises his head and cuts himself off, green eyes going huge. “Hell’s _bells._ ”

His voice is full of awe, and you look up to see what he’s seeing. “Holy _shit._ ”

There is a war going on in the trees between the warehouse and the next lot over. Bradley has transformed into something bearlike, if bears were also covered in spikes of ice and bluish fur. He lashes out with a roar like the winter wind, and a small sapling _shatters,_ spraying wood far enough that you can hear it shatter further against the asphalt. And Tempest…

You don’t watch the Lord of the Rings movies that much, but one scene stands out to you whenever you do: Galadriel going nuts over the Ring. The voice and the lighting get you every single time — all of that power focused on Frodo, ready to swat him away like an insect to get the Ring.

Tempest looks like that. The golden light around them occasionally wisps off into tiny firefly motes that turn the trees into whips or shields, as much weapons as the blurred shillelagh smacking aside clawed paws and slamming blows into Bradley’s torso. None of Bradley’s strikes come anywhere close to hitting them, even as your heart leaps into your throat when you realize that Bradley is now a foot taller than them, easy.

“What the hell did he _do_ to himself?” Dirk asks, and you can hear Jake’s shirt shift as he tightens his grip on your cousin. You shake your head, and Jake coughs again before speaking in an almost whisper.

“I think he stole Fae magic.” His voice is a little hazy, but when you glance at him, his eyes are their normal emerald. “I — I don’t _know,_ but it sounds right, looks right — let Tempest handle it, it’s their responsibility — ”  
“Shh, Jake. we’re staying right here.” As if to back you up, Dirk grabs your hand, and you squeeze back.

Then you flinch as Bradley roars and shatters another tree. For a moment, everything goes dark and cold, and you cling harder to Dirk as the world goes hopeless.

_You’re alone. The hand in yours is a lie. No-one is with you, and no-one is coming, and above it all an insidious voice whispers to you:_

**_Give in, little Hunter. Close your eyes and let the winter take you_ ** **_—_ **

There’s a flash of gold, and Bradley’s roar becomes a whine. You raise your head, squinting, just in time to see Tempest strike him in the throat, once, twice, three times —

Then they take a step back, draw the knife from their belt, and step in again to drive it up into Bradley’s chest.

The cold vanishes. Bradley’s form melts like the ice it seems to be made of as he falls back, choking loud enough that you can hear it from here as Tempest follows him down. He bounces heavily, and Tempest leans forward until they’re nose to nose with him.

You’re pretty sure you’re way too far away to hear their words, and that what they’re saying isn’t in English. Nonetheless, you can hear it as clearly as if you were next to them.

_“Greet the Devil for me. He’s got a place set for you at his table.”_

Then they yank the dagger out of Bradley’s chest, and he gives a rasping, choking breath and gropes for Tempest’s face. Tempest leans back, batting his hand away before it can do more than brush their cheek, and watches his struggles slow to a stop.

You don’t move as they slowly stand. They’re still glowing, and you’re not sure if they can recognize you as friends right now. Being stabbed to death by an angry half-Fae is not how you want to go out.

Then they take a step and collapse, the glow surrounding them going out.

“And that, kids, is why we don’t piss off Trooping Fae.” You look up to see Hal stepping out of the van with a very ruffled Davesprite basically attached to his arm. “D said that he’ll be out soon; they’re all fine and just rounding up the survivors.”

You let out a shaky, relieved breath. “Good.” You look at Tempest. “We should go make sure they’ll be okay.”

“If you can handle that, I’ll get the corpse.” Hal eases Davesprite down so he can attach himself to Dirk as you move.

“All right.” You rub your sore shoulder, then start moving. “Let’s hurry, before people come looking for the light show.”


	8. Chapter 8

It’s another week before you can leave. You came perilously close to dying after your fight with Bradley, and you’re fairly certain that without Karkat’s back up, someone would have tied you to the bed to keep you there like they were insisting they would.

Despite the mothering, you’re feeling more relaxed than you have in...a long time. And it’s not just the copious amounts of rest you’ve gotten.

You’re not entirely human, and not entirely Fae. You don’t quite fit in with either half of your family—the Fae find your attempts at altruism baffling, and the humans find your mercurial mood shifts offputting.

But at the Striders’, no-one cared if you carefully worded your sentences to avoid any semblance of debt for anyone, or if your moods swung from melancholy to joyful with little warning. They treated you simply as a person, and that was almost as great a gift as your own life.

The truck you’re riding in comes to a halt, and you pull away from your musings to look out the window properly. A broad stand of oaks greets you, and you glance at Dirk as he clears his throat. “Uh, will this do?”

“It will more than serve. Thank you.” You can feel the Way within the trees even from here. If you wait until full noon, you’ll be home in minutes.

You reach for the door, but before you can pop it open, Dirk clears his throat again. “...Do you have a moment?”

You look over at him and notice that while his face is still flatly stoic, one thumb is worrying at the steering wheel hard enough that you’re concerned he might hurt himself. So you let go of the door and tilt your head. “Is something wrong?”

“No, I just…” Dirk blows out a long sigh, letting go of the steering wheel and turning to look at you properly. “You saved Jake. That...makes us even.”

You blink at him. “I...are you certain? It is your right to substitute his life for yours, but…”

“I’m sure.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Leaving aside the fact that I absolutely do not deserve to have your life-debt, you saved Jake from something that was going to be worse than dying. That’s...more important to me.”

You stare at Dirk for a long moment, until you realize he’s squirming a bit. That makes you toss on a hasty smile, and you bow your head. “Very well then. Thank you, Dirk.”

He snorts softly. “Don’t need to thank me.”

“And yet I will anyway.” You give him a bit of a cheeky smile, but it quickly eases into something gentler. “...provided I don’t drop a bunch of mad hunters on you, would you mind if I came by to visit?”

Dirk snorts. “Even if you do, feel free to stop by. We can always use a workout.”

“I will try to not hold you to that,” you say over a slight laugh. “But until then, may the sun warm your face and the wind be at your back.”

You step out of the truck and into the grass on the side of the road, shillelagh over your shoulder. As you walk to the trees, you can feel the plants you pass over curling around your bare feet, and you smile.

Then you pass into the trees, and between one heartbeat and the next, you are gone.

**Author's Note:**

> No, this is not a Persona fic. Hopefully it's enjoyable anyway!


End file.
